


trainwreck

by pinkgrapefruit



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Lesbian AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-07 13:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18621385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkgrapefruit/pseuds/pinkgrapefruit
Summary: “You were great, Brooke” the girl repeats, with less bravado this time, testing the name out on her tongue. “Fucking beautiful to watch.”[lesbian fake dating AU]





	1. she knows she's got me wrapped around her fingers with a glance

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So I've written a lesbian multi-chapter whats up. This is a fake dating AU and should have about 3 chapters. Special thanks to @freykitten for being the best beta and finally learning how to use google docs and also to @artificialcherubi for being my UK pal and fourth eye. As usual, all characters are my own interpretation and therefore completely fictional, Enjoy!

Brooke dances like a fish in the ocean. Like the salt spray is coating her as she dives through the surface and back onto the stage. She is lithe and lean and feels the music as if she is conducting it herself. Every turn she makes, every rise is calculated perfectly in time to the melodic hum of classical music that flows through the auditorium. It is a Saturday in June and the air is warm like barbecues yet the powerful air conditioning lets a cool undercurrent flow around the dancers' feet as she jumps and jetěs.

 

Vanessa wonders how she got so lucky as to be watching Brooke perform. Standing on the sidelines, just close enough to the stage that she can still see the judges react whilst being safely hidden in the wings. She is utterly in awe. It is competition season and it flows through her veins hot, like liquid courage as she absorbs the confidence Brooke has and hopes to throw it back out onto the floor in six numbers time. It is her first nationals. She is unsure of how she can compete with what she’s watching.

 

As soon as it began, the show is over and Brooke steps off the stage with a sigh of relief and a smile. She unties her pointe shoes with languid arm motions, letting the muscles relax after two-and-a-half minutes of stress. The silk falls away from her easily and soon she is barefoot, nursing a large blister that her toe pads neglected to prevent and catching the gaze of a short, dark-haired girl five feet away. Despite her staring, the girl has not yet noticed Brookes’  attention focused on her, hands rubbing each other in a frenzied panic as she shifts from foot to foot. She turns as she shifts, allowing Brooke to read the paper tacked to the back of her leotard, _‘115, Vanessa Mateo’._ She decides this is a sign from the universe that she should be more sociable.

 

“Vanessa,” calls Brooke from her position on the floor. As she hears her voice echo in the wings she notices how Canadian she sounds among the bevvy of American accents she’s been surrounded with. Since moving to Florida a little over 3 years ago her accent had weakened significantly, but every competition she attends always brings it back with a vengeance. Seemingly reacquainted with reality, the girl’s head snaps up at the sound of her name. Her features are small but bright and Brooke imagines that in any other scenario, they would radiate confidence - it just appears to be lost under the competition lipstick and false eyelashes.

 

As Brooke changes into more comfortable shoes, worn out black pumps covered in ballet chalk - Vanessa makes her way over, body shaking a little either from nerves or redbull. She supposes it could be both. “Hi, I just wanted to say you were great and I'm almost nervous to compete against-” She trails off as she reaches her, Brooke watching her like a predator watches its prey, like she’s the one holding the cards. Vanessa looks at her, studying the minutia of her face before taking a deep breath and trying to regain the composure she ruled her everyday life with. “I’m Vanessa,” she states, confidence flowing through her movements effortlessly as she holds out her hand. Brooke, being the Canadian stereotype she is, takes it with a tilt of the head. It's not that she’d never met a polite Floridian before, but she’d never met a Floridian so willing to shake hands. “I know. I’m Brooke,” she replies heartily, chuckling as she does so. “You were great, Brooke” the girl repeats, with less bravado this time, testing the name out on her tongue. “Fucking beautiful to watch.”

 

Brooke blushes, focuses on the way her shoelaces fall on her ankles in perfect curves, the colour combination of the black on her pink tights. She notices the way Vanessa's toenails are painted red, which she imagines to be the colour of her soul, and decides she must be a contemporary dancer because her feet aren't nearly damaged enough for ballet and all the jazz dancers she knows wear shoes. She lets that train of thought take her as far as it will go, carrying her back to the conversation at hand. “Thank you,” she whispers like a prayer because a gorgeous stranger has told her that her dancing was beautiful, that maybe she is beautiful, and she doesn't know what else to do. She believes that it's gay panic, she should know by now.

 

She is snapped out of this by an angry Latina waving a pair of matte black dance shoes in the air and cursing in Spanish.

 

“ _VANESSA ISABELLA VANJIE MATEO_ ,” she shouts, voice as loud as thunder but about as threatening as a stuffed animal. “¿GILIPUERTAS, NO TE CRIÉ BIEN?”. Accompanied by some thorough hand gestures and angry furrowing of eyebrows, the whole situation had Vanessa looking like she wanted to cry as, what she assumes to be her mother, hands off her shoes with quiet words. She sits beside Brooke as she slips them on, hands back to shaking as she struggles with the thin laces. With a sudden rush of care for the girl, Brooke gently nudges her hands out of the way and ties them for her, searching for the words to address the situation. She comes up blank.

 

As she finishes, she notices that Vanessa and her mom have started talking in hushed voices. From her knowledge of French, Brooke can pick out some words, although she is unsure of whether she is intruding in a private conversation. She is about to get up and leave when Vanessa grabs her arm and, as boldly as she can muster, declares “I can't ‘cause I'm dating Brooke.”

 

The look she gets before she can even reply is both grateful and apologetic as the shorter girl moves in front of her. From behind, Brooke can really appreciate the height difference. When she’d been sat down, she assumed she’d be a little taller, maybe two or three inches at most, but standing up, she realises it’s at least a head. She finds herself unsure of what she should do with her arms as one is commandeered by the Latina who is again talking in angry Spanish to an equally emotional older woman. She laces their fingers, allows the smaller palm to fit neatly within her own curling around the soft skin. The speaking becomes softer, turns back into English and as she looks up, she meets the mothers' eyes. “How would you feel about Sunday dinner, Brooke?” asks the woman, all calm words and easy smiles now. Brooke is startled, confused and, to be fair, a little scared by the question. It is all she can do to nod along and when Vanessa's number gets called, she is kissed on the cheek and left to her own devices as her mother follows her step in the direction of the stage.

 

Once they are both far away enough, she grazes a hand over her cheek to feel the greasy lipstick mark that was left behind. Her cheeks are warm and she imagines the rest of her body is in a similar state because she is so unreasonably confused by the whole affair, the last ten minutes feel like a blur of sandalwood perfume and Spanish.

 

She leaves her bag in the wings and moves to the auditorium to watch Vanessa dance; the movements are fluid and fiery and she is certainly a jazz dancer because  Brooke doubts that her body could move slow enough to convey all the hidden meanings of a lyrical piece. She finds that she is fine with sitting there and watching the dark-haired dancer lay it all out on the floor - ballet may be beautiful, but this is heart racing, head spinning gorgeous.

 

*

 

It is hours later, when Brooke is still confused and Vanessa still a little flustered, that the two find each other again. Vanessa placed third in the senior solos with Brooke finishing a happy first place, ecstatic about her win but perhaps a little regretful that she beat out the Latina for the top spot. Vanessa seeks her out in the changing rooms, hurries a small card into her hand and a chaste kiss onto her cheek, for the sake of her mother watching them, before she leaves. As she thumbs the card over in her hand, Brooke notices the graphic words on the other side:

 

_(813)-445-1988_

_text me beautiful, V xx_

 

She can feel the confidence burnt into the card, imagines a smirk, similar to the one she held watching Brooke win. With the little self-control she still has, she promises herself to wait and text Vanessa when she gets home. Unaware, her mom just smiles at her daughters' smile when she clambers into the back of the car.

 

*

 

 **Brooke:** hey, its brooke

 **Brooke:** from dance

 

 **Vanessa:** hey beautiful

 

 **Brooke:** i’m confused

 

 **Vanessa:** of course u are

 **Vanessa:** look, im sorry but i panicked. i told my mom we’re dating to stop her from tryin to set me up with this ballet dude

 **Vanessa:** just play along and come to sunday dinner

 

 **Brooke:** fine, but it’s not that easy

 

 **Vanessa:** thank you

 **Vanessa:** wdum

 

 **Brooke:** we’ve got to have a plan, for questions

 

 **Vanessa:** we’ve been dating for three months, met at the firefly comp a few months back cos u were watching, first kiss on the first date, amusement park blah blah u get it

 **Vanessa:** wear something hot (but not too hot bc grandparents)

 

 **Brooke:** just text me your address

 

 **Vanessa:** googlemaps.png

 **Vanessa:** thanks again, ur a life saver

 

 **Brooke:** it’s fine, you better make it up to me though.

 

 **Vanessa:** see you sunday babe :)

 

*

 

Brooke smiles into her sweater, allows her feelings to bubble in her like a hot air balloon. She thinks she’d like to watch the sunrise accompanied by those red-painted lips whose owner she can't seem to get out of her head, wonders if that could happen one day. Sunday better come quickly.

 


	2. trainwreck headed for us but we never think of runnin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any confidence she thought she had falters immediately when met with the expectant faces of 15 Latin-American elders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for linda because you were (semi)drunk when i wrote this and honestly it made it so much better. And also thanks to @freykitten for teaching me apostrophes and sealing with my tense hopping, you are way too patient x

She’d spent hours on this outfit but even now, sitting in her mom’s Toyota Corolla, she’s unsure if she’s made the right choice. The green of the silk sits nicely on her collarbone, the deep v showing just enough cleavage to still feel sexy whilst being grandparent-appropriate. Her mom's non-committal noises and pleasant smile told her enough when she'd gotten in but she still feels like it’s all a little too much. She’s fake dating a girl she might have a genuine (but very much ignorable) crush on and she’s about to meet the parents. Too much. 

 

As she gets out of the car, feels the soft Tampa breeze against her exposed legs and lets it muss her hair a little, she starts to realise just what she’s gotten herself into. She’s standing in front of a large, expensive looking condo, beachfront view and all. The garden seems to give way to sand in some places and the rose bushes,  _ god _ , the rose bushes look exquisite. She nudges the door closed and grabs the small purse she’d balanced on the roof before watching the black car roll back down the driveway. Brooke gulps. Heart beating at a mile a minute, she slowly makes her way up the front path, heels catching on the neat gravel as she tries (and even with her dancers' grace, kind of fails) to hold her poise. Later, she’ll laugh about it, joke the tall emerald heels were against her - for now, she waits cautiously by the door, trying to find the confidence to knock.

 

The door opens by itself. Or at least that's what she thinks as she hyper-fixates on the door knocker, elaborate gold roses securing a snake biting its tail. In reality, a short girl with caramel skin and warm brown eyes opened it and resigned herself to staring at her guest intently. She’s dressed in a red mini dress, thin cotton barely skimming her mid-thigh. Her height is less impacted by Brooke's heels but more by the lack of her own, looking tiny against the 6’3 ballet dancer standing before her. Vanessa laughs, and it's warm, dripping like melted butter in Brooke's ears. “Well, don't just stand there babe, come in,” the low voice sounds playful and Brooke just smiles, thinks that this could be okay, and walks in.

 

Any confidence she thought she had falters immediately when met with the expectant faces of 15 Latin-American elders.

 

Vanessa is grabbing her hand, reeling off names left, right and centre and rubbing slow circles into Brooke’s palm, not that she notices. Instead, she closes her eyes in a silent prayer to whatever god decided this would be funny and tries to plan an escape. She is not fast enough. “-is my girlfriend Brooke,” is all she catches of the shorter girl's spiel before a warm, sticky kiss is planted on her cheek. She curses herself for not paying attention, always seems to miss the most important part of the story even when it turns out to be her.

 

“Thank you for doing this, you look great,” comes the low voice again, this time a soft whisper into her ear. She feels her entire being blush as she lets Vanessa affect her.

 

She kicks off her heels before going to take the seat clearly meant for her. She seems to be next to a relatively calm looking old lady with a kind smile and even kinder eyes. Vanessa will be sitting on her other side, and opposite, she’ll have Alexis. Her newly lifted spirits plummet once more as she realises she’s going to spend the entire dinner seated in front of her fake girlfriend's mother. It takes a lot of effort not to let her perfectly painted face fall straight onto the table in front of her. Luckily, the Latina girl sits next to her quickly and Brooke fights her instinct to grab her hand under the table, funnily enough, feels like she has to hide the ‘relationship’ even when there's not really a relationship to hide. Vanessa does not share the sentiments, grabs her rough palm with her own soft fingers and intertwines them loosely on her lap. She thanks the lord she’s ambidextrous.

 

They’re ten minutes into the dinner Alexis has prepared, the lobster is not a typical Sunday dinner but then again, Vanessa's family don't seem particularly focused on being typical. It melts in her mouth and Brooke’s not sure if lobsters are supposed to be this good but this one sure as hell is, and then the questions start. “So,” Alexis puts down her fork and glances between the two of them,” how did you meet?” Brooke's panic must have been evident to Vanessa who starts softly stroking her thumb up and down Brooke's hand. “We met at that firefly comp, that one a few months back, three or so? Babe?” comes Vanessa’s response, succinct yet oozing a charisma she must have been honing for years. “Yeah, three,” Brooke shoots back, nerves biting at her throat like when you swallow ice water too fast. The woman on Brookes left starts to chuckle, her laughter bouncing off the deep red walls of the dining room. She sinks her toes into the plush carpet and prays for the end of the meal to come as quickly as possible. Instead of an end though, Brooke gets a small foot hooked around her ankle, cold flesh on warm skin. It grounds her as they fend off questions from every relative Vanessa has (although she’ll later discover that these are only the ones Alexis likes enough to have in her home). 

 

“Why have we not met sooner?”

“What kind of dance do you do again?”

“Are you any good?”

“Remind me when you decided to be a lesbian?” 

 

That one stings Brooke a little. It's not directed at her but it manages to slide in through the cracks in her armour, find a hole deep in her lungs and bury itself there. Her old scars are not sprouting flowers at this moment, but instead, feel like they're going to split open and pour out all of her secrets for the world to see. She needs to escape. 

 

She shakily pushes away from the table, mumbling something about a bathroom and, as fast as her legs can take her, runs up the stairs. She doesn't know where she is, and can barely see two feet in front of her from tears clouding her vision. She’s sure if she checked, her mascara would be rolling down her face like rain but she can’t bear to look at herself right now. She’s ruined the meal, ruined Vanessa’s cover.

 

Brooke finds a room, one with a plush cushioned chair in the corner and a stack of classic novels balanced precariously on the uneven floor. She decides this is where she will stay, curling into the armchair like it's one of the ones from home. Picking up the top book, she leafs through it, finding it's one she’s read before but quickly becoming engrossed in the smell of old books and the Orwell's words. The tears fall a little slower.

 

Maybe that’s why she doesn't hear the hesitant knock on the door or the quiet footsteps across the room. She doesn't notice a small body perch on the arm of her chair. In fact, Brooke doesn't even notice the hand on her shoulder until she smells Vanessa's perfume (sandalwood and pink grapefruit).

 

“What was that about?” asks Vanessa, quiet and cautious - like she’s afraid Brooke would break if she probed too hard. The taller girl shifts in the armchair, turns her body a little so she’s not quite facing her, but almost. She sighs as she sets the book down. “That question, the one about choosing to be a lesbian,” she closes her eyes a little as her voice falters. “It threw me a little I guess.” The Latina must pick up on the hidden baggage because she doesn't ask any more questions, simply rubs small circles into Brooke’s left shoulder. “There was a guy, at my old school. Back in Canada. He- he wasn't the best.” her voice breaks into shakey sobs, breathing ragged and hot onto Vanessa's hand where she laid her head. It feels heavy, full of fluff and repressed emotions. She doesn't like how quickly she’s fallen apart but the soothing hums of the other girl seem to be slowly putting her back together.

 

Once she deems herself a little more stable (or at least a little less likely to spontaneously burst into tears) she raises her head and looks at Vanessa. For the first time, she really looks into the warm chocolate of her eyes and feels overwhelmed by gratitude toward the smaller girl. “I haven't exactly had the best reactions,” she mutters, low and gravely but still somehow comforting. Brooke smiles weakly, trying to convey all of her emotions into a fragile expression. Instead of continuing the conversation, Vanessa just kisses Brooke on the forehead. It's like sunshine after a rainstorm, a little glimmer of hope in the shadows. It's waxy and warm and definitely leaves a mark but Brooke leans into it a little. Both girls are unsure of where they stand with each other, the circumstances are uncharted territory and neither has a map.

 

“Thank you V,” says Brooke, she really means it. She is grateful to have someone who, even though they barely know her, will follow her and calm her down. “Anytime babe,” replies Vanessa, before leaning in a little. Brooke follows, eyes flicking between warm chocolate and fiery red. She closes the gap. If she was a little more cliché she’d say it felt like fireworks or coming home. She’s not, and instead, it feels like picnics and seaside days out - carousel ponies and hot summers. It is a whirlwind on her lips and she is sure they will tingle for days to come. Vanessa smirks into the kiss like she wanted it to happen all along. She tries to deepen it but the taller girl stands her ground, nibbling on her bottom lip a little before pulling away.

 

Brooke flushes, something akin to strawberries and summer, before tilting her head a little. “Why do I feel like we’ve done this a little backwards?” she jokes, pushing a strand of hair back behind Vanessa's ear. She giggles a little, it’s melodic and Brooke might be a little smitten. “I really like you, Vanessa, do you want to go on a date with me?”

 

She doesn't get an answer, only a kiss.

 


	3. chapter 3. she gives a smile that snaps my little heart into a trance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You look, wonderful 'Nessa," replies Brooke, as easily as signing your name or falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it’s taken me a little longer than I would have liked but it’s been a hard week so bear with me. This is dedicated to Jenna who really wanted me to make it pretty woman inspired and I can’t say no to that girl so here we are. Also thanks to Meggie for betaing me cause she’s awesome! I may have a few more ideas if you want more for this so please let me know in the comments and with that, enjoy!

She thinks she might be going insane. Vanessa has spent the entire morning running around the house at lightning speed, and she still doesn’t feel ready for this - for her date. She knows it’s ridiculous to be so nervous, Brooke has seen her so vulnerable that this should be easy, a cakewalk of sorts, but maybe en pointe, and now Vanessa is thinking about her legs and _fuck._ This is going well.

 

To make things worse, Alexis has noticed her daughter’s higher than normal anxiety, has been sitting in her armchair, looking up ever so slightly every time she hears the elephant footsteps down the stairs. Sure, Vanessa tried to be more lowkey but in her excitement, she forgot her mother didn’t know this was her first date and  _ god _ she doesn't think she can hold it in. Her mother didn’t know anything. “Mama! Will you come and do my hair?” she calls out from the top of the stairs. She’s already dressed and her makeup is done but she wants a little time with her mom, knows that this is a big step in her life (has forgotten it should have already happened). Alexis sighs and shakes her head as she stands, lazily making her way up the stairs muttering about manners and being raised by wolves. She almost cries when she steps into her daughter's bedroom. 

 

“Oh baby,  _ bomboncita _ , you look gorgeous,  _ muy precioso _ .” Vanessa blushes shyly. Her mama is never usually this soft and quiet, she really feels like this is special. The girl takes a seat in front of her vanity as Alexis combs through her hair with her fingers. “What’s the occasion,  _ cariña _ ?” she asks as she’s curling her hair, soft bouncy waves turning the coffee hair a golden caramel in the right light. Vanessa closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, she knows that there is a right thing to do here and  _ goddamnit  _ she wants this day to be the best it can be. “I’m sorry mama, I might have lied,” she responds, voice quiet and nervous. Alexis’s face drops. “This is mine and Brooke’s first date, we ain’t really dating but we’d like to try I think.”

 

She’s not sure if she expects her mom to be mad - she hopes not, but her mama has always been fiery like her and has never taken well to lying. Fortunately, Alexis can’t find it within herself to be angry. “ _ Mija, Cariña, _ ” she whispers, putting down the curling wand and moving to be closer to Vanessa. “Thank you for telling me and I’m happy you and Brooke want to try things.” She moves a little nearer, chin resting on her daughter's head - “I’m so proud of you  _ Mija _ .”If she hadn’t have looked fantastic - Vanessa might have cried.

 

Brooke picks her up at 6 pm, all long legs and long dress and Vanessa’s mouth goes dry the second she answers the door. She’s dressed in a floor-length burgundy dress, complementing her skin, her hair and her gorgeous ass - Vanessa can’t help but stare. "You - You..." It's not the first time the girl has been speechless around the tall Canadian but she still dislikes the way she makes her confidence shrink under the heavy gaze. Brooke drinks in the shorter girls outfit - it may not be 100% ballet appropriate but she's damn sure Vanessa has never been to a ballet. Her dress hits just above the knee, gold fringe covering her from navel to thigh. The neckline is a deep V and she stares for a little bit before her gaze wanders up to her face and fuck - she's beautiful. 

 

"You look, wonderful 'Nessa," replies Brooke, as easily as signing your name or falling in love. The other girl's smile grows after that, she fills with a little more confidence as she skips ahead to the car, barely yelling goodbye to her mama who waves the two off.

 

Brooke's own mom is waiting in the car as the two slip into the backseat. Brooke’s leg is bouncing under her dress as they engage in mindless small talk and as soon as Vanessa notices, she places a gentle hand on top of it. The gesture is nice, calms her a little as Brookes mom delves into Vanessa's life. 

 

When they get to the theatre, Brooke somehow manages to shepherd Vanessa through the entrance hall without breaking anything, the shorter girl practically bouncing in her heels looking around at the decorations and the fancily dressed business people. She's fascinated by everything and everyone, and Brooke has to wonder if she's ever stepped foot inside a theatre before because she's never seen anyone one look at one with such care and admiration since, well, since she herself decided she wanted to be a ballerina. She coerces her into their seats (first row of the dress circle) with the promise of ice cream in the intermission and lets herself relax as Vanessa marvels at the set. It really is beautiful, golds and pinks and flowers everywhere.  _ The Nutcracker _ is a classic and her favourite and she so desperately needs Vanessa to love this because it is so integrally her. 

 

She is snapped out of her thoughts by her date. "Baby, baby look - he's wearing a top hat," she exclaims, and it’s a hell of a lot louder than is theatre appropriate. 

 

Brooke chuckles softly, "It's a theatre love, people wear that here, maybe a little quieter though." if she's trying to be stern, it fails the second Vanessa smiles back at her, that big joyful grin that can turn anything into a happy occasion. 

 

"Oh my god it's starting," she yells again, and Brooke flushes the same red as her dress, hitting the girl’s leg softly to try and stop herself from bursting out laughing. The looks they are getting must be fantastic, and she does not care. 

 

Brooke must spend more time watching Vanessa watch the ballet than she does actually watching it. The girl is leaned as far forward as she can be, both hands clutching the edge of the circle, fingers curled over soft velvet. She's so short that she's barely in her seat at all and to be honest, the taller girl isn't sure if she'd be able to see if she sat back so in a fit of possible insanity, she taps Vanessa and pats her own knees. It’s a sort of 'come here' gesture that is fulfilled as soon as Vanessa checks that there is no one behind them. It's a relatively quiet night and most of the people bought stall tickets so they're at liberty to do whatever they want. If they end up with Vanessa perched on Brooke’s lap, Brooke’s face buried in her hair then so what?

 

They buy ice cream at the interval and Vanessa talks animatedly about the production while attempting to eat the tub. She ends up having to stop due to brain freeze multiple times, but Brooke finds it immensely endearing. When they reach the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, Vanessa stands up. She's bent as far over the balcony as she can be and her eyes are glued to the principal dancer as she twirls and jumps her way through the  _ pas de deux _ \- it reminds Brooke of the way she used to watch it, sweaty palms scraping on expensive seats as her dad took her to see it in Toronto. She remembers the way her heart raced every time the score started and how she realised this was the role she wanted to get - this one and she was going to work tirelessly to get there.

 

Her smile is almost as bright as the dancers herself and so what if Brooke falls a little harder for the small girl with the endless charisma.

 

When the ballet ends, Vanessa has a single tear dripping down her face, she gushes about it on the way out, as Brooke stops to buy a souvenir program and a tiny wind up music box with the theme in it - she had one as a kid and wants Vanessa to have one too. 

 

“It was so good, I almost peed my pants!” she screams emphatically as she clambers into the car next to the Canadian and Brooke’s mom almost dies laughing. The drive home is easy, Vanessa buries herself into Brookes side, allows the taller girl to rest her head on hers and inhale her apple shampoo.

 

When they get to Vanessa's, they're both a little sad. They walk to the door swinging their arms between them, fingers grasping at what could be. When they reach the porch, Brooke delves into her bag and pulls out the music box. "I thought you might like this," she says softly, "It's my favourite." 

 

Vanessa smiles back at her, "Thank you baby, this was amazing," she replies and Brooke swears she can see the hearts in her eyes. When their lips meet, the world around her melts away. She could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed it! if you've got any feedback/ constructive criticism you can catch me in the comments here or over on tumblr @pink-grapefruit-cafe. I love you all and your feedback truly motivates me to keep writing xx


End file.
